Peaches & Herb Knew What They Were Crooning About

My dear readers (Hi, Mom! And the other two of you out there!): I’ve come to accept the fact that this princess is smack in the midst of middle age. Sure, the gray hair and crows’ feet were early signals, but the joint aches; the night sweats; and the raging case of shingles I developed this year made the fact undeniable. I? Am no spring chicken. I’m a sweaty, aching, chunky old chicken with a very expensive hair dye habit.

I don’t really have much to complain about – except the night sweats, which are truly revolting. (And if I’m going to sweat like that, why am I not losing any weight? This phenomenon makes no sense to me and I would like to take it up with Mother Nature. That bitch has some ‘splaining to do.) Once I came to terms with my middle-agedness, I discovered and unleashed a whole new batch of neuroses. Between the sweating, the shingles, and my neuroses both old and new, it’s a miracle I’ve managed to do much else lo these past few months – but I do get out occasionally.

One of the greatest things about middle age is the ability to reconnect with the cast of characters who played starring roles in the earlier chapters of your life. In the past six months, I have been fortunate enough to reunite with three “VIPS” from days gone by – and each reunion has left my heart full of joy and my brain on overload. Christi was my childhood neighbor and grade school friend. We wore barrettes with long ribbons, shared Bonne Bell Lip Smackers, and roller skated around the ‘hood. Life took us in different directions after grade school, although a series of unfortunate incidents found me spending my sophomore year of high school at an upscale, suburban school where this poor white trash did not fit in even a little bit. I was so happy to find Christi and her spiral perm and big bangs in the midst of all that privilege – until, of course, my hoodrat boyfriend kicked me to the curb because he had the hots for her. We never spoke again . . . until about six months ago when we attended the same book club meeting. She is a mom to three young men; a wife; a dedicated employee; and she remains one of the kindest and most compassionate people I’ve ever known. Young Christi befriended me when I desperately needed someone to eat lunch with, and she made one of my most awkward years of high school okay. Neither of us ended up with the guy, which is just fine because trust me . . . we both deserved much better. Christina – thank you for your friendship in the days before iPhone and thank you for making an encore appearance in our middle age.

I changed schools in 7^th grade. While my friends were starting junior high, I transferred in to a middle school where I was supposed to learn all about technology. Spoiler alert: I did master the art of Pascal programming but my inability to wrap my dense brain around algebra and basic science dashed any STEM dreams I may have had. And let me be clear . . . I was boy crazy as hell, so my STEM dreams were motivated by the abundance of testosterone in those classrooms. “7th grade me” was awkward on a good day. I was 5’10” with bad hair and a mouth full of braces that I only came to appreciate in adulthood but worse, I suffered from crippling shyness. This was not a recipe for success for a kid starting at a brand new school, and I struggled to make friends and fit in, until I met Alexandra. We were the Bobbsey Twins of awkward – both of us desperately uncomfortable in our own skin and desperate to fit in; to be understood; and to be appreciated. We were not our best selves back then – but we had a lot of fun hanging out at the now defunct Terrace Mall, trying on eyeshadow and pretending to be grown up.

7th grade me. Check out that unibrow and those braces!

There is really nothing worse than being a 12 year old girl. You’re stuck between being a kid and thinking you’re much more grown up than you are; you’re not prepared for things like menstrual cramps and periods; and you’re a giant dick to your parents because you’re trying to assert some form of independence. No 12 year old girl can do it alone, and thank goodness I had Alex as my wing woman during those awkward years. We graduated from 8^th grade and promised to be BFFs forever in the way that only adolescent girls can – but different schools took us on different paths. We reunited again in that fateful 10^th grade year and then our friendship faded away as life took us on different paths.

Of course, as a gal of a certain age, you reflect back and wonder what happened to so-and-so from your youth. Social media has made it easier to creep on your old friends and foes, but it’s not foolproof. It wasn’t until Christina (of roller skating and boyfriend woes mentioned above) connected Alexandra and me on Facebook that we were able to connect the dots, once again proving Christina’s awesomeness. And just like with Christina, Alexandra joined a book club meeting I attended, and we caught up on life. Her journey hasn’t been easy but she is madly in love with the man she married and she is laser focused on creating the best life possible. To sit next to her as an adult, with both of us sitting up straight and not apologizing for who and what we are was a blessing and a gift – and I look forward to continuing the journey with Alexandra. (Bonus points that neither of us had to remove our retainer and wrap it in a napkin during our reunion.)  

This brings me to my most shameful confession and my most joyful reunion. I met my best friend Andrea when I was a freshman in high school, and she became my “ride or die” for the next eight years. We never attended the same school; we hung with different crowds; but we were friends from the block. We attended the same church; we were in youth group together; and we were coworkers at the infamous Bunny Store. We consumed rivers of Diet Coke; ate thousands of mozzarella sticks; and thanks to the instructional videos of John Hughes, we mastered the art of stalking boys we liked. Anti-stalking laws were not a thing yet, so don’t judge. We survived near hypothermia and assault from kamikaze Boundary Waters Canoe Area beavers.  We sang Beatles songs; got kicked out of Canada; had our hearts broken; and one year, we even ventured to WeFest in my old Pontiac Sunbird.

Early career goals 

Andrea was a ray of sunshine to everyone who met her. Quick with a smile; kind; generous; and fun – she was everything I wanted to be. She was the ying to my yang. One of us was a blond extrovert with a killer tan, a big personality and a contagious joy. The other one of us was a pasty, freckled red head with crippling introversion, a quick wit, and a fear of pretty much everything. Our friendship made the transition from high school to college to beginning adulthood . . . until Mr. Wrong came along. You can read all about that fiasco in my prior blog.

Mr. Wrong was all kinds of wrong – and although he stole my money and wasted years of my life, the greatest thing he ever did was leave my ass. I wasn’t brave enough to walk away, and left to my own stubborn devices, I would have stayed and made both of our lives miserable until death do us part. While I was so wrapped up in playing house with Mr. Wrong, my friendship with Andrea faded away – and I never understood why. For the past 20 years, I’ve missed her tremendously and I’ve wondered where she is and how she is and there has been so much I’ve wanted to share. Not to mention that I really needed to discuss those kamikaze beavers because no one believes that story!

Fast forward and social media recommends that I might like to become friends with Andrea. Hell yes, I would! Thank you, social media bots for your creepy, stalkery algorithms. After a few false starts, we finally met up for dinner – and we picked up right where we left off over 20 years ago. And it was over a platter of nachos that the truth revealed itself . . . Mr. Wrong drove a wedge between us all those years ago. Without even realizing it, I put a mister before a sister – and I let Mr. Wrong tell my ride or die that I didn’t have time for my old friends. Now, when I look in the mirror, in addition to the myriad of other flaws I was already imminently aware of, I get to look myself in the eye and realize I’m the girl who put testes before besties. Oh, the shame. THE SHAME! Thankfully, Andrea is nothing if not gracious and we agreed to make up for lost time by making all kinds of new memories together. If “making new memories” happens to include making voodoo dolls of Mr. Wrong and stabbing the living shit out of them, well, so be it.  

Andrea & me - reunited at last!

Friends – whether for a reason, a season, or a lifetime – are one of the greatest joys and blessings in our lives. Reuniting and having someone to take a walk down memory lane with is priceless, even if that friend remembers your Duran Duran obsession (Christina); the crush you had on that nose-picking A/V dork John Jansen (Alexandra); or the time when you pretended to be lesbians so no one would recognize you (Andrea. Also: not one of my better ideas. WORST DISGUISE EVER.) Whether we were riding our bikes to the park or going to our first dances or portaging canoes in the BCWA, these three ladies were my confidantes. We knew each other’s hopes, fears, and dreams – and although not a one of us wound up where we thought we’d go, we all have gone to even greater places than we ever imagined.

25 years ago, I was a cashier in a convenience store, destined to become the very first La Mere to graduate from college. (Or else. Guilt is a very powerful motivator, Dad.) I thought maybe I’d be a teacher or a writer or maybe I’d save the world like Batman. In the words of Douglas Adams, “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I’ve ended up where I intended to be.” #Grateful  

© 2017 Princess D.

A Letter To Nate

Memories of the days after your funeral are blurry, like so many out of focus photographs. Entire days, weeks, and months passed. I know I visited your grave. I know I went to mass and raged at God. And since I didn’t get fired, I can only assume I continued to go to work, where I did something, talked to some people, and counted down the hours until I could escape to the safety of my car to cry.

Because there is so much I either can’t or won’t remember, the memories I do have are Kodachrome clear. I always struggled to share myself with you – I could never seem to find the words to tell you how I felt or how much you meant to me – so I wrote you letters. When I cleaned out your personal effects, I stumbled upon shoeboxes full of every card and letter I’d ever sent you . . . going all the way back to 11^th grade. I never knew you’d kept those letters carefully tucked away in shoeboxes for all those years. Of course, as it turns out, there was a lot I didn’t know back then.

After your funeral, I left letters at your grave . . . letters where I begged you to forgive me for failing to save you. Letters where I promised to carry you with me for the rest of my life. Letters where I swore I would do whatever it took to make you proud of me. These letters were carried away on the wind. I know they never made it to you but I wrote them anyway.   

I’ve probably written thousands of letters to you since that very first day when you tapped me on the shoulder, asked to borrow a pencil, and stole my heart. You, on the other hand, were a terrible pen pal. I can count the letters you wrote to me on one hand – which makes them all the more special to me.  

On the eve of the 16^th anniversary of your death, there is so much I want to share with you. I’ve written and rewritten this letter thirty times. I reread what I’ve written and I’m embarrassed at how stupid and trite it sounds when all I want is to be able to tell you is what’s in my heart. The thing is, Nate – you weren’t supposed to get sick. You definitely weren’t supposed to die. You were my happily ever after.

Not once in the 16 years you’ve been gone have I ever gotten angry at you. I was pretty sure I checked the box on the anger stage of grief, but upon further reflection, I’ve unleashed the fury on God; on your doctors; and most often, on myself. If only I’d loved you more or loved you better . . . if only I wasn’t a workaholic . . . if only I didn’t go to Memphis . . . if only I’d been more compassionate, more empathetic, more kind . . . you could fill the Grand Canyon with my guilt, shame and the if-only’s.

I’ve spent 16 years trying to figure out why you’re gone and why I was left behind. I’ve tried to figure out how to be enough – good enough, smart enough, thin enough, rich enough, talented enough. I often wonder if you’d be proud of the woman I’ve become. I desperately hope the answer is yes, but I’m never quite sure. That uncertainty is the thing that propels me out of bed each morning. It’s what motivates me to show up and give what I’ve got, no matter what. What I do isn’t important. It’s how I do it that matters to me. And no matter how tired I am, no matter how I feel, I try my darnedest every single day to be a day maker.

I feel inadequate most of the time. I don’t know if I’m honoring your legacy or not – but this old girl isn’t a quitter. I wasn’t the only girl who didn’t quit the t-ball team in 1^st grade for no reason. (And let me be clear. I should have quit. I was terrible.) I do the only thing I know how to do – keep on keeping on like a bird that flew. I wish I had the words to tell you how you’ve changed my life. I wish I’d had the courage or the foresight to tell you when I had the chance. My biggest wish, though, is to live a life that makes you proud.

16 years. It goes by in the blink of an eye and yet it feels like an eternity when you’re grieving. Of course, you’re not really gone – because I carry you in my heart and thus, I am never truly alone.

Love – for ALWAYS,

Me  

 © Princess D, 2017 

I See London, I See France . . . This Blog is About Underpants

Grief is weird. It shows up differently for everyone but it’s one of those things that we simply don’t talk about – like politics, religion, or when you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe after you leave the ladies’ room. In my case, grief is a lot like underwear. It’s a constant – I won’t leave home without it – and while there are long stretches of time when I don’t really think about my underwear, there are those days when I’m plagued by a visible panty line. Sometimes my giant granny panties get wedged up my backside at the very worst possible moments of the day, and I can’t really concentrate on anything until I get my panties out of a wad. On days when I wake up on the fat side of the bed, I’m acutely aware of how tight my panties are and I am distracted by them all day long. I have old, faded panties where the elastic is about ready to expire that I can’t bring myself to throw away, and I have a couple of pairs of fancy panties too, but most of my underwear is brought to me courtesy of the very nice folks at Fruit of the Loom and can be easily procured at just about any discount store in the nation. My grief, on the other hand, didn’t cost me a dime and while I’ve tried to return it, refund it, and leave it behind, it sticks to me like a reliable pair of high-waisted briefs.

For 16 years, I’ve worn grief under my clothes and deep inside my heart. Like my underwear, you probably never saw my grief (I’m no Britney Spears) but I assure you, it was there. My grief didn’t travel alone, bringing her friends guilt and shame along with for the ride, which may explain why my pants have felt so tight. Ha! It wasn’t the cookies – it was the grief! If you think grief is a heavy burden to carry, let me introduce you to guilt and shame. Those two bitches refused to leave my side, and they like traveling by wagon, so in addition to having grief crawl up my ass, I’ve been dragging an invisible wagon of guilt and shame everywhere I go. If you’ve ever wondered about my stooped shoulders and lousy posture, wonder no more. Some days, when the grief didn’t give me a wedgie, I’d forget about the guilt and shame wagon until I found myself tripping over it and falling face-first into the abyss. I replay the same stories in my head over and over again, trying desperately to write a different ending – but I can’t rewrite history. Everyone dies. I understand that. But when someone so young is taken from us before he has had a chance to truly live; when his death was self-inflicted; and when you tried but failed to save him from himself, you’ll experience a different kind of grief. You’ll feel the absence in your heart profoundly.

For 16 years, I have felt tremendous guilt and shame about Nate’s suicide. It’s a weight I’ve carried daily. The guilt and shame have wreaked havoc on my life. I’ve lost friends. Relationships. Guilt and shame caused me to let my guard down so low that I allowed predators into my life and into my home. Spoiler alert: that didn’t end well. Guilt and shame have led me to make terrible decisions and dangerous choices. I rationalized it all away saying, “I let Nate down. I won’t ever do that to another living soul again.” But here’s the deal. I couldn’t even save myself, much less anyone else. I faked it. I tried. I showed up. I did stuff. Maybe you saw my underwear sometimes, maybe you didn’t. For 16 years, I thought this was my destiny – to haul a shame wagon and to spend the rest of my days making amends for failing Nate. Every day, guilt woke me up in the morning, whispering, “Do you think he’s proud of what he sees?” And every day, I thought to myself, “Not yet – but I’ll keep on keeping on.”

While I was resigned to my fate, I didn’t stop trying to find a better path. I went to therapy, but therapy merely opened my eyes to the fact that I have even more issues than I was aware of. And I’m just not ready to sit down with four year old me to face those. I tried meditation, but I couldn’t quiet my mind and I was wildly annoyed by the sounds coming out of my fellow meditators . . . snot sucking; stomachs growling; wheezing; and someone even farted. I turned to the church. I went to mass.  I read everything I could get my hands on – and I learned that lots of people felt that their deceased loved ones were communicating with them through dreams. I prayed desperately for a sign, for a dream, for something. And for 16 years, I got nothing. Ten years ago, I went to an energy healer who took $300 of my money and told me that Nate couldn’t communicate with me because he was a toddler now. Sure, lady. I saw psychics; had my tarot cards read; and I did just about anything imaginable to find a way to reduce or eliminate the burden of guilt and shame.

I kept getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other. I met a man who didn’t care about my shame wagon. We fell in love and married. I somehow built a career. I celebrated birthdays. I visited the cemetery. I published some blogs that 11 people read. Not to brag, but I accomplished a lot in spite of the guilt and shame I dragged around behind me every single day. I got used to it, and I sort of assumed that this was my destiny, and that’s okay. My guilt and shame aren’t real problems – there are people who are struggling to put food on the table; people tortured by mental illness; people fighting for their lives. My sadness is hardly a debilitating condition. According to the experts, I’d reached the “acceptance” phase of the grief cycle. Awesome. (Note: just because you’re at acceptance doesn’t mean you stop wearing panties.)

And then, a couple of weeks ago, something happened. Just like I’ve done every other night for almost 17 years, I put on my jammies and laid my head on the pillow to sleep. But this time, I had a dream. The details of the dream have faded now, and they aren’t important anyway. In my dream, I was looking everywhere for Nate. I was searching high and low, stopping everyone I encountered to ask if they had seen him. I finally found him, in the basement of our high school (!), where he was working away on some kind of art project. I was so relieved to see him, I ran over and exclaimed, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Where have you been?” He looked up at me and said, “I didn’t know you were looking for me. Please – stop worrying about me. I’ve been here the entire time.” I woke up shortly thereafter.

I’m a heavy sleeper and if I dream, I don’t realize it most of the time. I can count on my fingers the number of dreams I remember in the last two decades, so a dream that stuck with me after waking was a mini-miracle in and of itself. But this was the dream I’ve been waiting 16 years for. I woke up and for the first time, I didn’t trip over a giant shame wagon at the foot of my bed. My grief suddenly felt less like underwear and more like a bracelet – something I might wear and admire from time to time, but no longer a constant staple of my wardrobe, hidden far away from the naked eye. Nate is part of my story and part of my journey, so I will never close the chapter on missing him . . . and now, I have permission to put the guilt down. He’s been here all along. He doesn’t want me to worry. And it’s okay to move on.

It’s amazing to be freed of the shackles of my guilt and shame, but it’s also a little disconcerting. It’s like discovering that Fruit of the Loom is no longer making my preferred style of granny panties and switching to Hanes Her Way (been there, done that). It takes time to get used to this new underwear and this new way of showing up in the world. In fact, I’ve been plagued with this restless energy ever since. Who am I without this grief holding me in place? What will I do now that I am free from guilt and shame? A friend asked me how I will design my life now that the guilt and shame are a part of my past. That is the million dollar question – and I’ll answer it real-time as this new chapter unfolds. Watch this space.

© 2016 Princess D